Hmm. The problem is, writing fiction is not like journaling, which is primarily for oneself, or doing articles that inform the public. When I write a short story, I imagine a reader: someone interested in island life and curious, like me, about how a small piece of land surrounded by water affects its people and their relationships.

That reader has been mostly elusive. Shaking people free of island stereotypes is a thankless task among those who want characters to talk like Jamaicans even though they're not, or who think American culture hasn't crept into island dreams and desires. Those readers want the differences to be less subtle, the beach to be raked. Fiction as vacation instead of reflection.

No, I need the reader who wants a "real" island. And I can't just write the story for myself. When you tell a story, the assumption is that there's a listener. Much of the pleasure I have taken in writing stories has been the anticipation of having someone say, "Aha. Yes," acknowledging a truth in a fictive world. O reader, where art thou?

At first, just imagining this reader was enough. He/she and I explored together and had fun looking for interesting shells, figuratively. But lately I've realized that I have no such companion in real life, and I've been stymied in finding Dear Reader.

Perhaps I'm just stupid about marketing. Perhaps I'm too lazy to persist in finding places to publish, or too shy to blow my own horn to shuffle people toward the stories. Or perhaps there is no market. In any case, without a playmate I'm not having as much fun anymore.

When I first started writing fiction, I went to a friend who had already published novels and asked if he thought I should continue. He liked what I wrote, but asked me two questions: Do I expect to make any money from this? (No.) Are you having fun? (Yes.) He encouraged me.

Today, though, the answer to the second question is, Not so much. It's time to stop, at least for a while. I own a sweatshirt that defines writer's block as "When your imaginary friends won't talk to you." In this case, though, it's when my imaginary reader stops reading.

Maybe it's temporary. Maybe I'll get to North Caicos next week and be so filled with new bits of island life to explore that I won't be able to keep my pen away from paper. We'll see. But otherwise, farewell my friend, fiction.

You're probably now seeing a lot of articles about dealing with stress during the holiday season. It's all pretty good advice ("Don't try to be perfect." "Delegate chores."), but often the suggestions require a change in attitude that takes time. Time is probably just what we don't have, so following the advice can be difficult. What we need are some quick solutions in the middle of the craziness. It also occurs to me that stress follows us all the time, not just during the holidays, and that all sorts of activities could use a moment of peace and a feeling of being recharged (writer's block, anyone?). So here, instead of "Christmas stressbusters" (an ugly and overworked term), are some five-minute refreshers.1. Enjoy the scenery. Get your eyes off the screen and look out the window or across the room. Find whatever beauty might be there and savor it.2. Listen to the quiet. Turn off all the background noise, even your own music, for just five minutes. It makes a difference.3. Doodle. Spend some aimless time with paper and a pencil.4. Pet your pet. Appreciate the beauty of fur or scales, or just watch the pretty fish.5. Remember your dream. Not your big dreams, but the one you had just before you woke up this morning. Spend some time in that world, even if (maybe especially if) it makes no sense.6. Wash your hands. It gets you away from the problem at hand (pun intended), helps warm or cool you, and a bit of hygiene always helps.7. Walk. Even if you're stuck in an office, do a round of the cubicles or go up and down the stairs.8. Break something. Wrap one of those extraneous coffee mugs in a towel and smash it with a hammer or large book. There, doesn't that feel better?9. Crunch something. Stress snacking isn't considered a good thing, but it has its place. Besides, the crunch doesn't have to come from a package; raw vegetables make a satisfying noise.10. Leave it. Stop whatever it is that's giving you stress and put it aside. It'll still be there in five minutes, but you'll come back to it fresh.

You are working on a first draft and small wonder you're unhappy. If you lack confidence in setting one word after another and sense that you are stuck in a place from which you will never be set free, if you feel sure that you will never make it and were not cut out to do this, if your prose seems stillborn and you completely lack confidence, you must be a writer. If you say you see things differently and describe your efforts positively, if you tell people that you "just love to write," you may be delusional. How could anyone ever know that something is good before it exists? -John McPhee, "Draft No. 4," The New Yorker, April 29. 2013 I stumbled on the works of John McPhee years ago while reading The New Yorker. Over the years, his writing made me care about topics I had barely considered: geology, New Jersey's pine barrens, long-distance trucking, oranges. Lately he has been writing about writing, which I already care about. That's why I want to read all of "Draft No. 4" out loud to anyone who will listen. Instead, I'll share just a few of his comments. For more, get your own copy of The New Yorker.On writer's block: You are writing, say, about a grizzly bear. No words are forthcoming. For six, seven, ten hours no words have been forthcoming. You are blocked, frustrated, in despair. You are nowhere, and that's where you've been getting. What do you do? You write, "Dear Mother." And then you tell your mother about the block, the frustration, the ineptitude, the despair. You insist that you are not cut out to do this kind of work. You whine. You whimper. You outline your problem, and you mention that the bear has a fifty-five-inch waist and a neck more than thirty inches around but could run nose-to-nose with Secretariat. You say the bear prefers to lie down and rest. The bear rests fourteen hours a day. And you go on like that as long as you can. And then you go back and delete the "Dear Mother" and all the whimpering and whining, and just keep the bear.On revision: The difference between a common writer and an improviser on a stage (or any performing artist) is that writing can be revised. Actually, the essence of the process is revision. The adulating portrait of the perfect writer who never blots a line comes express mail from fairyland.Best description ever of a copy editor: Copy editors attend the flow of the prose and watch for leaks. Oh, there's more, there's more. But get your own copy. Mine's already highlighted and scribbled on, awaiting my next bout of "my own inability to get going until five in the afternoon, my animal sense of being hunted, my resemblance to the sand of Gibraltar."

Snoopy, on his doghouse, types out "It was a dark and stormy night" -- slowly, one word at a time. In the last frame of the comic strip, he looks at his audience and says, "Good writing is hard work." You gotta love it. I had this masterpiece pinned to my bulletin board for years until the newsprint began to crumble and its removal left a rectangle undarkened by the light. By the time I started my first novel (well, second if you count the one I began at age 8), I had already become a working writer and was well acquainted with the horrors of the blank page (or screen). What I needed to be reminded of then wasn't the work but the fun. Howard Owen did that. My former supervisor and an already-published novelist, he kindly took a look at my first pages and encouraged me. He reminded me that fiction rarely brings riches or fame, then asked, "So, are you having fun?" I was. Writing Island Girls, which later became Fish-Eye Lens, was one of my rewards at the end of island days spent digging up burr grass, sealing the decks or cleaning windows. I laughed and gossiped with my characters and amused myself by naming minor characters after real people; various Richmond journalists became a lawyer, a college professor and island church ladies. After that bit of fun, there was a long period of revision, querying agents and publishers, copy-editing and more revision. Good writing is hard work. All along, I had the second novel in mind: another adventure of my "girls," this time loosely based on the real-life adventures of trying to keep Aloe House safe from its not-always-sterling renters. I got a chapter and a half done before I stalled. Maybe I was distracted by a new life in Richmond. Maybe it was too soon to fictionalize events that had caused me great pain. Maybe it was the rejection letters from the first book. Anyway, the fun was gone. I turned instead to a different, more serious, direction and began a series of short stories about island life. Some were published, while others languished -- but for a writer, that's enough encouragement to continue. She-Pirate of the Taino Islands went not on the back burner but into the cupboard. Recently, though, the girls have re-entered my life. I'm hearing them again, enjoying once again their boozy, gossipy approach to East Taino. What happened? They came up in conversation. With Fish-Eye Lens finally moving toward publication, friends started asking about it and its characters. I began talking about Liz, Phyl and Kate in the way I describe real island friends. The girls seemed eager to take on something new; it would be fun. I'm ready now to have fun with them. My real and imaginary friends have conspired to remind me that writing is not only hard work, but also a satisfying occupation and, all things considered, a good time. It's like that Snoopy comic strip: You gotta love it.